Two Ghosts
by pandaeatleaf
Summary: Spoilers up to the finale. My first fic, reviews would be nice :D House and Wilson, post 8x22 Everybody Dies. Out on the road, everybody's assumed that both House and Wilson are dead, effectively making them ghosts. House is fine with that, but Wilson knows that he should be dead. His five months to live have long passed.
1. Chapter 1

The world thinks it's rid itself of Gregory House and James Wilson.

After all, one died in a burning building and another died of cancer. Though nobody ever saw either of their faces as they lay dead, it was safe enough to assume.

But remember, assumptions can be a dangerous thing.

* * *

Two ghosts sit, facing each other, in an out-of-the-way café. One is stirring his coffee, and another is rubbing his right thigh, wincing a little.

"Is your leg alright? I think we still have a little Vicodin left," The brown haired, shorter ghost finally looks up from his coffee.

The evidently older, unshaved ghost shakes his head. His voice is hoarse. "I took it last night. I can get more."

And the two sit in silence for another period of time. Neither looked uncomfortable, or awkward. They looked perfectly content simply being in the other's company, silently engaging in their own thoughts (no doubt about each other), and from time to time stealthily sneaking a peek at their companion.

Two ghosts, who aren't quite ghosts, and aren't quite dead.

* * *

"Heard your family had a funeral for you last week," House quickly filled out the last five squares on his crossword, which took a total of eighty four seconds. They really needed a new hobby.

Still trying to figure out the word for 4 across, Wilson nonchalantly remarked, "And… you're stalking my family."

"I owe you, Wilson."

Wilson recalled their dinner that he had turned into a dinner for House and his parents, the road trip to House's father's funeral, that strange book "Step by Step: Sermons for Daily Life". Well, he had done a fair bit of meddling in House's personal affairs.

"It was pure serendipity, I swear on my life. Oops, too late," House grinned. "I was really trying to see what Foreman had been up to, and whether I could ruin it for him. Accidentally found out he'd been to your funeral."

Serendipity! That was the word. Wilson quickly completed the crossword.

"You seem awfully indifferent about this," House mused. "You either don't give a crap, or we're preparing for the return of Kyle Calloway. I'll get the condoms."

"No way is Kyle coming back. I'm just indifferent because… I should be in that empty coffin they buried. I should be dead."

"It's only been seven months," House was suddenly somber. His forehead creased in both worry and pain.

"That's two months too long. And you know it."

* * *

The worst kind of torture isn't the kind that you feel at the current moment. Sure, that's pretty terrible; just ask House, he's a true expert on the topic. No, the worst kind of torture, is knowing that up ahead, at any given time in the near future, there will be pain.

That knowledge far surpasses physical pain. Just ask Wilson, he's now an expert on the topic.

Wilson was living in fear. Fearing that the next morning he would wake to a sharp pain deep in his chest, where the tumor was, and that would be the start of his downward spiral. But the worst part is that the anticipation of that day pained him every day.

"When will this thing kill me?" Wilson blurted out one day at breakfast. They had been laughing about some funny prank House pulled. Wilson had already forgotten the conversation, as House's deep, blue eyes stared at him silently.

"I… don't know, Wilson. I mean, as much as I seem like it, I'm not God," House threw a Vicodin, maybe two, into his mouth.

"Oh stop deflecting. I should have been dead three months ago, but here I am, walking, living, breathing. It's killing me, knowing that someday I'll start dying and I don't know when."

House stopped. He pressed his weight onto his cane, upright beside his seat. "Fine. Let's take a look inside, shall we?"

And he tried to give the most sinister smile he could, but Wilson wasn't in the mood for playing.

* * *

There was a little bit of déjà vu. Wilson was lying straight, waiting for an image from the CT scan. Who knows how House managed to sneak them in? House was impatient, waiting for the image to appear.

They were chatting about something. Neither of them remembered what the conversation was about right when the scan completed.

House fell silent. His eyes stared straight at Wilson, and Wilson stared straight at his. The last time this happened, it was bad news. The last time this happened, House had to tell Wilson he was going to die. The last time this happened, it turned both of them into ghosts.

This wasn't like last time.

"The tumor… shrank," House looked incredulous. Wilson stared back in disbelief. Then, they both started to smile.

Two ghosts, and one was coming back to life.

Assumptions are definitely a dangerous thing.


	2. Chapter 2

**(Hello! Thank you for the reviews (: It's my first fic, so comments would really help! This is a pretty short chapter; I just had a bit of time on my hands today so I sat down and wrote a little. Hope you enjoy it (: )**

"It's not operable size yet," House mused. Another breakfast at another out-of-the-way café, and another conversation Wilson didn't want to have.

"Yet would imply some sort of expectation…" Wilson stirred his coffee and looked up at House. House, on the other hand, was gulping down pancakes like they were the most delicious thing he'd ever eaten- even better than those Wilson had cooked for him that one time…

_The pancakes here aren't even that great…_

Back to a more pressing train of thought, Wilson quickly averted his attention from pancake jealousy to House's suspicious smile.

"House! I've been given a few more months to live, great, but if you're expecting this to become some spontaneous cancer remission…" It was possible. The tumor had, by some miracle, shrunk. But that's the end of it, right? You can't bring a dead man back to life. You can't revive a ghost.

"You're going to be more than a little disappointed," Wilson stood up, placed his napkin next to his empty plate, and walked off to where their motorcycles were parked. House sat in silence for just a bit, and then quickly got up on his good leg, limping slowly to the motorcycles.

The two of them drove off to their next destination.

Two ghosts, one more hopeful than the other.

* * *

Of course, that wasn't the end of it. When you're dealing with House, it hardly ever is. They were sitting in their motel room that night, the dim light barely illuminating Wilson's outline on the bed across from House. It wasn't a big city, and the lights went out often, leaving the two sitting in the dark.

But in a blink, there was no need to see him; Wilson was close enough to touch. House was now across the room, sitting on the opposite end of Wilson's bed.

"It's been another half a month. Maybe the tumor…"

"House, you've gone 2 weeks without mentioning this," Wilson was mumbling, as if fighting off a bit of pain. His voice had that raspy, throaty sound House's often had. "Why do you always have to meddle in my personal life?"

House smirked, "We are on the same bed…"

Then the lights came on. In a flash, everything happened much too fast.

"My chest hurts…"

A deep dry cough

A bit of blood

Ear-stinging silence

Everything was involuntary. House didn't even have to think. His hand reached for his stethoscope, his ears checked for abnormalities, his eyes stared into Wilson's, his heart continue to beat, and his breaths got faster and faster.

Then it was all alright.

Wilson relaxed, fell back onto the bed, and his breathing went back to normal. House's stethoscope fell onto the floor.

House still didn't know what to say or do. His brain just knew he was tired. He fell back onto the bed, next to Wilson, and before he could even process the action, he was asleep.

Two ghosts, lying side by side.

* * *

It had been a few weeks since that night.

House didn't like to think about it, and Wilson didn't want to talk about it. For once, there was a puzzle and House wasn't already all over it. He'd rather not consider why Wilson's chest suddenly hurt right where the tumor was, and rather not contemplate what that meant for his best friend.

Nothing had happened since then, and that was an answer enough for House.

Call the press, call the papers, here's something headline-worthy:

Gregory House is scared.


	3. Chapter 3

House was taking Wilson's pulse. It had become a bit of a daily ritual now, ever since that night. Wilson knew he was fine, he could feel his heart pumping, and as House counted the beats out loud, he knew his heart rate was normal.

His poor heart; the dumb thing's convinced he's still alive, beating earnestly as ever. Just a constant reminder that he's a dead man walking, every beat was like another nail in his coffin.

Ba dum, ba dum, ba dum

That's coffin's nailed pretty tight right now.

Which is why, as we know, Wilson was a ghost. Dead as can be.

* * *

It was late in those nights where House would find himself overcome with an overwhelming sense of impending doom. Not for himself, because nothing really scares you much after you've died in a burning building, to be honest.

He feared for his best friend.

And somehow, enveloped in darkness, House would find himself creeping across whichever motel they were at that night, and curling up on a corner of Wilson's bed. He never really intruded, or took up too much space. He didn't hog the covers, or snore, or kick in his sleep. House would simply lie in a small corner of the bed, and fall quickly asleep, glad for the warmth from his best friend – warmth that indicated life.

But by the time Wilson woke up every morning, House was already back in his own bed, snoring loudly as ever, and Wilson would smile and shake his head.

This concern, this preoccupation, or whatever you'll call it, completely justified what House was about to do. At least, that was so for House.

It's not like he hadn't done it before, and it's not like Wilson minded. But House feared that when his best friend's head gently bumped the table in front of him, mere inches away from his glass of drugged juice, Wilson would never wake up again.

That was the sole source of apprehension in this attempt to dose Wilson.

Like every other time, the poor, unsuspecting oncologist sipped his drink, still rattling on about how irresponsibly House had handles his team back at PPTH. House smirked at the reminder of how Wilson always happened to be all preachy when he was being dosed. Advising House about Cuddy, about Cuddy's mother, about Foreman's resignation were a few past culprits.

"House you do realize… Oh crap," Wilson shook his head and attempted to pry his eyes a little wider. He felt the room spinning and closing in on him, and he knew the feeling too well. "House, why would you dose me?"

And with that incredulous, outraged glare, Wilson slumped forward, with only House's hand to soften his impact on the table before him.

Who knew, turns out you can drug a ghost.

* * *

When Wilson awoke, House was smiling, which, as far as he could remember, was hardly ever a good sign. Wilson rubbed his temple, waiting for the room to stop spinning, the sudden introduction of light had disoriented him quite a bit.

"Phew, thank goodness you're not dead," House smirked, pretending to wipe sweat off his head. Wilson groaned and rolled his eyes. He definitely did not need that reminder. "And thank goodness you're not dying either."

Wilson laughed for a bit, having expected some clever punch line from House and responding out of pure reflex. Then, he stopped.

And then he realized.

"Not… Not dying?"

This had to be some kind of joke, or some kind of dream, because with the amalgam of his throbbing headache, the blinding light and House's revelation, he hardly felt grounded in reality. However, the scratchy roughness of House's voice, which could only belong to the one and only true Gregory House, begged to differ.

"You know I don't believe in coincidences, and I don't believe in miracles, and I believe that everything is a puzzle that I can explain…" House eyed Wilson carefully, watching for a reaction. Wilson nodded just very slightly, prompting House to go on.

"I guess you just enjoy taking a shit on all my beliefs." House fished out the scanned image he had printed. Turns out it's pretty easy to get a CT scan when the patient's under. House would have to keep that in mind. Wilson stared in disbelief at the scan.

Operable.

The tumor had shrunk again, and Wilson was going to have to reassess his life. He would live for years to come, tens of years to come. He wasn't a dead man walking. He was… alive.

Then he looked at his best friend, the one who had "died" with him, who had disappeared off the face of the earth with him, who was now nothing more than a ghost, seen only by Wilson. Wilson was alive, but there was no turning back for House.

Wilson was never more aware of the consequences. House could never go back without at least a three year sentence; he would probably never practice medicine again. House would be all alone.

And behind his absolutely genuine, most sincere smile, House knew all that. House knew he was dead, and Wilson was on the side of the living. House knew that he had never felt so distant from his best friend in his life. House knew that he was, as he had always been, alone.

One lone soul, alone in the afterlife.


End file.
